


Tangled too tight and too long to fight

by Marishna



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Fear, Gen, Nogitsune Effects, Nogitsune Trauma, Panic Attacks, Post-Nogitsune, Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:38:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marishna/pseuds/Marishna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Nogitsune ruined too many things and its grip still haunts Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tangled too tight and too long to fight

The Nogitsune's reach extended further and longer than Stiles thought possible. 

The pack carried scars from that time, and would for a long time, Stiles expected. He didn't feel guilt from that, not exactly. He knew it was something that happened because it was out of his control and no one held that against him. 

He knew it and they knew it and logically he could assure himself about it every single second of every day.

But at night when things got quiet and Stiles was left to his own thoughts and to allow things to run through his mind over and over it got harder. Sleep became an elusive acquaintance, the shadow he chased to reattach to his physical self.

Stiles' eyes grew sunken and the dark circles came back. Scott and Lydia would whisper to each other when they didn't think Stiles was listening or watching, casting clearly concerned looks his way.

"I can't take this insomnia anymore," Stiles announced one morning over coffee to his father.

John knew he wasn't sleeping _well_ but not that it was so bad. Although he'd also noticed how exhausted his son was growing but didn't know how to approach the subject. Maybe, deep down, he didn't _want_ to approach it because it meant going back to that time when he didn't know where Stiles was or _what_ Stiles was. 

A dad isn't supposed to share his terror with his son, especially when it's about his son.

"I'll make an appointment with the doctor," John said simply.

"I can do it," Stiles replied but it was an automatic response, not an actual protest.

"I'll pull some strings to get you in right away."

"Thank you." There was relief in this statement, nearly palpable.

Two days later when Stiles started getting ready for bed he went over the instructions on his new sleeping pill to make sure he was taking it at the right time, wanted to make sure it was going to work. He was looking forward to a full night's sleep, blissful oblivion.

Nothing could have been further from the reality.

It felt like he floated through his night's sleep, in a cloud of images just our of reach. He'd see Jennifer Blake's face melt into the Darach's and back, Peter snarling at him on the lacrosse field, his own greying, cracked face crumbling just out of arm's reach.

It felt like a slideshow of "The Best of Beacon Hills" except more terrifying.

Stiles felt more exhausted the next morning than he had when he had plain old insomnia. 

"Maybe you need a few days to get used to it," Scott said, echoing what his dad said that morning, dubiously, when he saw how peaky Stiles was. 

Stiles was subdued but agreed. He didn't like how the drug stayed with him, long into the day and made him feel like he was moving through molasses in the day. Coach didn't even yell at him to "get his ass in the game" at practice. Just shook his head and told Stiles to hit the showers before they even started.

John made a follow up appointment with their family doctor for Stiles and they switched his sleeping pill. Stiles was resigned but hopeful. Staying up all night was different when it was Adderall-and-research related and not so-tired-I-could-cry related.

The new pill was worse.

Stiles spent two nights, trapped in dreams that felt as vivid, if not more than, as the ones when he was possessed. But he didn't wake up screaming from these ones. He couldn't wake up, couldn't cry out so his dad would hear. He didn't wake until morning and he felt dull and drained. All he could feel in his gut was nauseous dread. He kept seeing own hand shove a knife into Scott's stomach, watched himself slice Allison open and bleed to death, heard the sound of his own laughter as he pushed wolfsbane into deep cuts on Derek's body, felt the heat from the explosion that engulfed the Sheriff's station and he knew he was the one that caused it… 

The second morning when his father shook him awake Stiles felt grateful for a split second before he started sobbing, taking in deep heaving breaths that threatened to easily slip into a panic attack.

"I can't do this, dad. I can't do this," he repeated over and over while John held him close, rubbed his back and tried to feel anything more than completely useless.

"We'll figure it out," John murmured.

Stiles was at the door to Deaton's practice before he arrived that morning. Deaton didn't look surprised to see Stiles and welcomed him in, straight to the back where Stiles was becoming more and more comfortable with.

"It could take me a few days to come up with something," Deaton warned once Stiles explained what he already tried and what he needed.

"Anything," Stiles started but his voice wavered when he remembered his dreams and he clenched his hands so tight they hurt when he relaxed them. "Anything you can do to help me is appreciated. I just want to sleep and not dream and not remember anything and not wake up feeling like I have everyone's blood on my hands."

Stiles' admission hung in the air, full of desperation and the weight of the Nogitsune. It pressed down on Stiles, threatened to trigger a new panic attack.

"I will help you," Deaton said simply and immediately Stiles could breathe again. Deaton was not a man who spoke in absolutes so Stiles knew he was telling the truth.

Stiles had permission to stay home from school, not that he could have focused anyway, but he didn't want to go home by himself. He ended up at a quiet coffee shop and ordered a tea instead, making sure it was decaf, something warm but hopefully calming.

He took a seat outside at a small table and tilted his head back, eyes closed, to take in the warm sun. The exhaustion made him feel sluggish and cold.

Much like before, with the Nogitsune.

A shadow blocked his sun and Stiles peeked up, drowsily. Derek stood in front of him, like a damn eclipse.

"Shouldn't you be in school?"

"Shouldn't you be creeping somewhere?" Stiles retorted.

"I haven't crept in years," Derek replied easily and Stiles laughed, an abrupt bark of sound that surprised him. Derek inclined his head to the other chair and Stiles nodded so Derek sat down across from him.

"I haven't been sleeping. Had to see Deaton," Stiles said as an answer to Derek's question. Derek raised an eyebrow and Stiles continued. "Parting gift from the Nogitsune. I either can't sleep at all or sleep with, uh, images."

Derek's nose twitched, so slight that if Stiles didn't know what he was doing he wouldn't have noticed. "Sleeping pills not working?"

"Making it worse," Stiles replied and he couldn't repress the tremor that shook through his body. "Deaton's going to see what he can do for me."

"You going to be okay until then?" Derek asked with genuine concern that softened Stiles' a little.

"I'll make do," Stiles said with a shrug, even though he knew Derek could hear that he wasn't sure of himself.

But Derek nodded and let him have it.

That night Stiles had some warm milk, took a hot shower, popped some melatonin, deliberately turned his computer off and didn't check his phone for at least an hour before he hoped to go to bed.

But sleep continued to be the elusive bitch Stiles knew it to be and two hours later he was still laying in his bed, staring at the ceiling, wide awake. He didn't know how it was possible to be _that_ tired and not be able to sleep, but there he was.

He thought he heard something from downstairs but he convinced himself he was becoming delusional and paranoid from lack of sleep. Until a shadow moved in the hallway and he scrambled out of bed, slamming onto the floor hard before he tried to fumble for his phone on his nightstand.

The overhead light flipped on and Derek stood in the doorway, staring down at him like _Stiles_ was the ridiculous one in the room.

"What in the hell are you doing here?" Stiles demanded, popping up from the floor. "And how did you get in?"

"I used the door," Derek replied, sounding defensive. "You always want me to use the door."

"Okay, now having experienced the terror of you sneaking into my house in the middle of the night through a _door_ I think I'll revert to our previous arrangement. Please use the window, at least I know only werewolves visit that way," Stiles grumbled. He tried to straighten his sheets where they got tangled up from his fall out of bed but sighed and gave up. "Why are you here?"

"I wanted to check how you were sleeping. I figured you weren't."

"Good figuring. And now I definitely won't sleep tonight from _terror_ ," Stiles griped. He rubbed the heels of his hands in his eyes and let out a frustrated growl. "Sorry, I'm a dick right now."

"As opposed to all the other times?" Derek replied, drily. Stiles snorted. Derek shrugged out of his leather jacket and toed his shoes off, pushing them in front of the closet neatly. 

"What are you doing?" Stiles asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Cora used to get night terrors when we were younger. She heard some scary story at school and it freaked her out for months until she either forgot it or grew out of it, I can't remember. Mom and Dad used to do this for her and then I would too, sometimes," Derek explained as he moved around the bed and fluffed the covers before pulling them back.

"I find it interesting that a _werewolf_ could be freaked out by a scary story told by an elementary kid," Stiles replied.

"We all have our things," Derek said and shot Stiles a look.

"Touche."

Derek turned off the overhead light and then climbed into the bed, near the middle. Stiles stood by the window and felt dumb. "What are you doing?"

"Get in."

"Uh," Stiles said and then shrugged and did as he was told. He didn't need werewolf hearing to catch Derek's muttered, "First time you've ever done as you were told."

Derek maneuvered Stiles so his back was pressed against Derek's chest and he wrapped a hand around his chest so his hand rested over Stiles' heart. Stiles could feel Derek's even breath against his neck and the warmth from his body as a hot line against his.

"This is weird," Stiles said and Derek poked him in the stomach lightly, causing Stiles to let out a grunt. "Okay, okay. Teach me, wise one."

"I'm going to start breathing, slow and deep, and you're going to mirror me and count out loud while you focus only on your breaths."

Stiles opened his mouth to say something that was sure to be a smarts remark but Derek tightened his arm across Stiles' chest.

Derek started breathing slowly and Stiles closed his eyes. He felt Derek's chest expand against his back and Stiles inhaled along with him.

"One," Derek said quietly. 

"One," Stiles echoed while his mind started to visualize how they were pressed together, picturing them from outside his body and how they'd look to someone walking in on them, then he flashed to his dreams the night before and how he could _feel_ the wolfsbane in his fingers and the sticky, viscous texture of Derek's blood— 

"Two," Derek's voice cut through Stiles' thoughts and his hand rubbed a little over Stiles' chest, to calm him.

"Two," Stiles said. He held onto that word in his head, focused on the movement of Derek at his back, as if flowing through into Stiles and he breathed deep. "Three."

He focused hard on keeping his breathing even and counting them as he exhaled.

It wasn't like going under with anesthetic when everything just falls away because Stiles had some awareness as he started to drift off but he _did_ drift. The next time he opened his eyes it was still dark in his room but it was a couple hours later.

Derek was still wrapped around him, a comforting presence holding him close. Derek lifted his hand from Stiles' heart and stroked it over his forehead, scratching lightly through Stiles' hair. Stiles relaxed from tension he didn't realize he was holding and was out in under two minutes again.

The next thing Stiles knew it was morning and he was being shaken awake by his father. Stiles blinked at the morning sun, confused. Derek was gone.

"Stiles? Are you okay?" John asked, concerned.

"I'm…" Stiles took stock of himself, tried to think what he dreamed. 

Nothing.

"I'm good. Today I'm good," Stiles finished. 

"Glad to hear it," John said with a soft smile. "Get going or you'll be late."

"Sure," Stiles mumbled, wiping sleep gunk from his eyes. When John left the room Stiles flipped over and could make out where Derek laid all night, holding him and tracking his heart rate.

Stiles could only hope Deaton came up with something as good as that to help him.

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in response to a challenge at Beacon_Hills on LJ, "What they fear". There's a lot of stuff about the sleeping or the INABILITY to sleep, that I have experienced and have had to deal with consistently for the past five years that helped me get a grasp on what I wanted to express Stiles going through.


End file.
